


The Elevator Method

by tacitly



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst, F/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacitly/pseuds/tacitly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Franziska/Miles. Non-con, with Franziska being the dominant party and doing it solely to put Miles (whom she's always had some level of rivalry and resentment towards) in his place, humiliate and break him. Bonus points if she taunts him about various inner demon things which cut deep. More bonus points if she knows Miles is gay and taunts him about that, too."<br/>Implied one-sided Edgeworth/Phoenix</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Elevator Method

**Author's Note:**

> written ages ago for the PW kink meme, which I miss dearly. Can't wait for PW5- and hopefully a subsequent kink meme revival!

  
She had been working on another case involving Interpol, she told him. He wasn't sure what, exactly, Interpol agents from Borginia were always getting into, but getting murdered was beginning to seem like an unfortunate hobby they pursued. Thankfully, he was only in the country for a case regarding smuggling.   
  
It was an astonishing coincidence that the cases wrapped up at around the same time, and even more so that they had the same flight back. Franziska seemed oddly perturbed by this turn of events.   
  
"That's an interesting suitcase," Edgeworth remarks, eying the tacky green-yellow pattern with mild disdain. It's unmistakeably Rhoda Teneiro's design, but he can't remember when Franziska would have bought one of the hideous suitcases--or why.   
  
Franziska mumbles something about foolish, naive airline attendants, and tells him to go back to his seat. "There's turbulence, Miles Edgeworth. Unless you wish to blank out again, I suggest you take a seat."   
  
He takes her grape juice glass off of the small table by her seat. "Why don't we reminisce a little... go down to the lounge?" He suggests.  
  
"Reminisce about a murder?" She retorts. She gets out of her seat anyway, stepping in front of him and leading the way to the lounge. "It has been a while," she admits, when they get to the lounge, "How is Wright?"  
  
Edgeworth takes a seat next to her on the bar stools and hands her back her grape juice. "The same as ever, I imagine. I haven't seen him in a while." He tries to hide the sadness in his voice.   
  
Franziska raises her eyebrow and lets the silence linger a little.  _Say something,_  Edgeworth silently begs her, but she simply sips her grape juice and watches him. "When was the last time you saw Wright?" He asks.  
  
"I haven't seen him for quite some time either. The last time I saw him was probably a little after the airplane case," she says nonchalantly, unconsciously fiddling with the corner of an airplane magazine.  
  
Edgeworth hasn't seen him in a couple of years, not since the Hazakura case. But it feels like at least a decade. It was easy to dismiss the man as a nuisance, but in truth, it always felt as if there was something missing in Edgeworth's latest cases. He couldn't think of a time when he had lost a trial since that case years ago against Wright.   
  
"I see," he says.   
  
Without warning, the turbulence increases. Franziska holds onto the bar table as magazines slide off and their grape juice glasses crash onto the floor. Edgeworth looks around the lounge, growing increasingly nervous as chairs fall and the round table in the corner starts to move about with the turbulence. "We should probably head for the elevator to ground ourselves," Franziska says matter of factly, as though unfazed by the turbulence.

He hesitates. An elevator is the last place he wants to be during the earthquake-like tremors.   
  
Franziska scoffs, readying her whip. "Don't tell me you're still afraid of elevators, Miles Edgeworth? Still haven't let that childish phobia go?"  
  
When he doesn't respond, she heads towards the elevator with an annoyed frown. He follows reluctantly, not wanting to be left alone.   
  
As soon as the elevator doors close, he starts to feel faint. He steadies himself against the elevator wall, trying to take long, deep breaths. He fights off the urge to close his eyes. It's better to take the chance of not calming down than to show such weakness in front of Franziska, he decides. With a steadying breath, he looks over at her.   
  
She's standing with her arms crossed, glaring intently. For a moment, he almost entertains the thought that she somehow caused the turbulence, that this is a test. But people don't cause turbulence. And he was the one that invited her to the lounge, after all.   
  
The lounge-- There had been a murder here. There had been a  _body_  in this elevator.   
  
The stuffy airplane smell is overwhelming even in the elevator, but all Edgeworth can smell now is the phantom smell of blood and grape juice. His pulse quickens, and all his attempts to steady his breathing come undone.  
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
"Pathetic."  
  
When he opens them, Franziska is barely inches away from him.   
  
She's like his sister, he thinks. He's grown up with her. This position should not be uncomfortable, and yet, he can't help but to hold in his breath for a moment, tensing up.   
  
She grabs his ascot, pulling his face close to hers. "A von Karma never makes an empty threat," she hisses, lips moving against his ear as she speaks. Edgeworth's ascot strains his neck as he feels the blood rush to his head. He's heard her say those words before, somewhere, but he can't remember when or why.   
  
Franziska ruffles through his hair slowly with her free hand. He almost starts to relax, despite the painful tightness of his ascot around his neck. Then the ruffling turns to pulling as she tugs at his ascot again, sending a wave of pain through his head and neck. "Never," she repeats, pulling hard at a tuft of his hair for emphasis. He winces, and he can feel the vibrations of her lips as she laughs against his ear.  
  
"What... threat?" He asks, strained. The state of his ascot has severely limited his breathing and speaking freedom. It's tight around his throat. He can feel it digging into his skin, can already envision the ugly red marks it will leave. Franziska's hand is clamped around the white frills with an iron grip, the intimate veins and muscles of her hand visible.

  
Then: release. The ascot's grip around his throat loosens, and Franziska's other hand is out of his hair. He starts to let out a quiet sigh when suddenly his shoulder blades hit the lower wall of the elevator and a sharp pain erupts in his chest. He cries out, surprised.  
  
He can still feel the weight of Franziska's touch: two hands on his chest, pushing him down against the wall into a seated position--or rather, a sprawled position. She towers above him, smirking, and pushes his head down with her shiny, sharp-toed black boot.   
  
"I'm going to destroy you."

It's all too much: the elevator, the phantom smells of blood, and now Franziska is--  
  
What  _is_  she doing?  
  
His first thought is assault. She's displayed an unusual amount of violence even by her standards, and the look in her eyes is almost predatory. She's standing above him, looking down and glaring. Her gloved hand clenches and unclenches as she bites her lip slightly. For a moment, Edgeworth wonders if even  _she_  isn't really sure what she's doing.  
  
"Franziska, you don't have to do this," he starts, not really sure what he's saying.  _Do what?_  He wonders. But if there's any chance of his words swaying her, he's going to take it. She waits, unclenches her fist and leaves it open. He takes it as an invitation to continue: "Perhaps... we could talk? If this is about your father, I--"  
  
At that, her hand clenches again--around her whip. Her pale blue eyes light up with fury.   
  
"My father?" Franziska asks, half-laughing. The whip's lash hits his face with incredible force, breaking the skin of his cheek like a razor. He slowly touches his face with disbelief, slightly dizzy from the impact. "This is about far more than my father, Miles Edgeworth."  
  
He's seen her whip Gumshoe countless times, but it's never even remotely as hard--and she's never aimed for his face. Sometimes her lashes even bordered on being perfunctory: an effortless flick of the wrist, a disdainful look. This time, she's used full force, and there's a strange sort of hunger in her eyes that frightens him.   
  
The whip is tossed aside carelessly. It slides across the elevator floor, hitting the doors with a slight clang. When Franziska bends down to his eye level, he realizes she is far more frightening without her whip. She cups his cheek with her hand and caresses the mark from the lash. His skin stings as she smothers the blood with leather, the seams digging into his wound slightly. Her breath is warm against his neck, her face is so close, and--  
  
It's not a violent assault. The realization should come with relief, he thinks, but he can't help but suspect something far worse. It could be-- but-- no. It couldn't, she absolutely... she wouldn't, he thinks, trying to reassure himself.   
  
Then she takes her hand away. He waits, trying not to hold his breath, as she places one hand on his shoulder and another on his chest, digging her gloved nails into the fabric. His breathing starts to quicken. He closes his eyes, trying to calm himself, and suddenly there's something wet on his cheek. Franziska's tongue traces the wound from her whip slowly as she pushes against his chest with her hand hard, trapping him further against the elevator wall. When she lifts her tongue from his cheek, the skin feels naked and cold.  
  
He's so distracted by the absence of her tongue that he barely notices the hand on his chest slipping down. When it reaches his pants, he lets out a gasp.

"What's wrong?" She asks, mockingly. She trails her hand down further to cup the crotch of his pants, smirking when his face goes red. The coldness of the mark on his cheek burns against his hot face. This is nowhere near what he had intended when he invited her to the lounge. This was not "reminiscing" and it was certainly not appropriate. He had lived with her for half his life, like her brother, and now...  
  
It's almost surreal. She's moving fast and he can't even register that anything she's doing is reality, not after knowing her for so long, for relying on her and trusting her and laughing with her for years. Even through their tense moments, he always knew she would never hurt him. He knew her completely, was never surprised by her, and yet now--

Her fingers are moving with alarming speed towards his pants zipper, unzipping him as unconscious noises of protest escape from his mouth. When he feels leather against his skin, the protests become conscious.   
  
"Stop, Franziska, please," he says hurriedly, desperate, "This isn't... this isn't...!" He stops, biting his lips to keep from hissing as she pulls his cock out of his pants and exposes it to the cold, stuffy air of the elevator.  
  
"What are you opposed to?" She asks. Her fingers clamp around his cock, moving up and down slowly. She leans in closer, breathing into his ear. "That I'm like your sister?" He winces. "Or is it something...  _else_?" Her voice lowers to a brusk whisper, and he shivers involuntarily. She brushes the tip of his cock with her thumb, and leans in closer still. She's so close now he can hear her clothing rustle slightly as she moves. "Is this not pleasurable? Perhaps you'd prefer a man's touch."   
  
He stops breathing. His heart is racing, beating painfully against his chest as he realizes  _she knows._  He'd always been careful, so careful--even dated women to deter suspicion. How long? He wonders. How long has she known? Did Manfred know? Who else knows?  
  
Franziska laughs. The malicious noise rings in his ears even after she's stopped, and he can't say anything. "Who do you think about when you touch yourself?" She taunts, "Phoenix Wright? Scruffy? ...Or perhaps, my father? Do you fantasize about him calling you into his office, stroking you until you come in his hand?"   
  
His cock twitches in her hand. She smirks, closing her gloved hand around it again and pumping it. The seams of the leather brush against him, and he has to bite back a gasp. "No," he whispers, through clenched teeth.  
  
"I was only joking. I know it's not my father you dream of, Miles Edgeworth. Did you think I hadn't noticed the way you look at Phoenix Wright--the way you laugh when he's around, or the way your face turns red whenever he gets too close?" Franziska smiles, and he can almost feel her teeth against his ear. Her voice sounds almost angry... almost resentful.

Before he has time to think too hard about her tone, however, she carries on. "I'm sure this would be much more pleasurable for you if it was his hand, wouldn't it? If he tied your hands behind your back with that foolish red tie." Despite everything, he feels himself getting hard at the thought. He's thought about Wright in a romantic way, but never in a sexual way-- has always just repressed any thoughts of the sort. Not because he wasn't interested, but because it made him feel... almost guilty. Now he can't think of anything else.  
  
Franziska's gloved fingers pull at his cock teasingly, and he tries hard not to moan. He closes his eyes, imagining Wright's hand instead of Franziska's, and the thought of him pulling at his cock and stroking him makes the whole ordeal almost pleasurable. Almost. He can feel himself shudder against Franziska slightly. She laughs at him quietly and removes her hand.   
  
He's about to protests, but stops himself immedietly, a feeling of self-loathing overcoming him at the thought. Franziska draws back slightly, looking smug and amused. "Look," she says, and opens her gloved fist. The leather shines oddly, a wetness dripping down the curves of her palm as he realizes he's sullied her glove with precum. "Do you find the thought of him that arousing?"   
  
The silence that follows is almost overwhelming. He wills himself to say something--just one word, just one stupid denial--but nothing comes. He just sits slumped against the elevator wall with his mouth agape, breathing heavily.  
  
"I take it that's a 'yes,'" She says abruptly, drawing near again. He tries to put his hands up to stop her, but they lay limp and helpless on the elevator floor. Before he can say anything, leather fingers gently touch him again, and she returns to stroking his cock. "You look so helpless. I almost pity you," she drawls, "Father would be appalled at your weakness, seeing you like this. Or..." She wraps her fingers around the length of his cock again, squeezing lightly. "Perhaps he would be pleased to see you in this position." He winces, and can't help but wonder if that's true. If there's a Heaven--no, a Hell--then he would give anything for Manfred to not be watching him right now. "But it isn't him you're concerned about, is it? Not now that he's  _dead_. Do you ever feel guilty for putting him in that position? After all, it was you and..."  
  
Her voice trails off, not finishing the sentence. It's obvious who comes after the "and," but somehow it seems she can't bring herself to say his name. He feels himself growing indignant at the thought that she should suggest it was his fault--or Wright's. Manfred was responsible for the death of his father and for framing him for murder, and Wright... well, Wright only found the truth.   
  
Franziska stops her movements, suddenly, her fingers resting still on his cock. "Are you worried?" Her voice is high-pitched with fake sympathy as she effortlessly changes the subject, "I wonder what that foolish defense attorney would think if he knew about your feelings for him. Do you know what  _I_  think?" Fingers press hard against his sensitive skin, and he's thankful that she's wearing gloves. He doesn't want to think about how painful this would be if her nails weren't covered in leather. "I think he would be  _disgusted._ "  
  
The last word lingers in his ear with a shrill echo. He's been careful not to reveal his secret, but he's never really considered the consequences. Now, all he can think about is Wright's stupid grin, completely oblivious--and how it would completely fall apart if he knew. Edgeworth shuts his eyes tight, squeezing them desperately to keep from tearing up.

"What do you want from me?" He asks. He tries to hide the desperation in his voice.  
  
"Nothing you can offer on your terms, Miles Edgeworth. Only to see you suffer."  
  
Her fingers start to move faster, desperately, up and down his cock. The friction of the leather seams increases, barely but painfully scraping against his skin, and she leans in even closer to him. He can feel her breath on his neck now. His ascot has been so completely messed up, loose from all of the tugging, and her breathing warms his bare skin. He can feel himself growing nervous, willing his heart to slow down as he feels his neck grow red, the color climbing up through his veins and heating up his face as well.   
  
Franziska's teeth scrape against his neck lightly, and he shudders. Without hesitance, she bites down. Her teeth dig into his skin, sharp and hot, and she lets the bite linger there, sucking at his skin lightly. "Wr-Wright!" He gasps, and comes into Franziska's gloved hand.  
  
He curls his hands into fists on the elevator floor, squeezing his eyes shut as he shivers slightly and spurts his come into the heat of the leather glove. She engulfs the head of his cock with her palm, catching every drop and laughing into his ear.   
  
Exhausted, he slumps against the wall. He opens his eyes to see Franziska removing her hand, opening it again to show him the mess he's made. In an instant, his mouth is covered. He can't breath, can't smell anything but the suffocating smell of leather and...   
  
He can't breath. Panicked, he grabs for her hand. She pushes him back hard into the wall. "Lick it," she commands, as she reaches for her whip. She waits, annoyed. "Do not make me wait, Miles Edgeworth. Do you need more prompting?"  
  
She won't kill him, no matter what, she wouldn't stoop that low, he's sure of it. But his heart rate is going up and his confidence is waning. So he takes her suggestion, tentatively prodding the leather with his tongue. It's a slightly bitter, heavy taste. He wonders if Wright's come tastes the same, if he'll ever find out.   
  
Miserable, he forces himself to pretend it does belong to Wright. He begins to lick with more confidence, trailing his tongue up and down the curves of the leather glove. Gently, he grabs Franziska's gloved hand with both of his hands as she moves it away from his face a little, allowing him to breath. His palms cup her knuckles as he brings the gloved hand back towards his face, lapping the remaining come up almost forcefully, hungrily.   
  
Then she tears her hand away, and he's brought back to his senses. His face burns red as he wipes the corners of his lips, humiliated. "Did you enjoy yourself?" She hisses. He falls back against the wall, ashamed, as she laughs.  
  
Suddenly, the elevator doors open. "The turbulence has ended. You may now wander freely about the cabin," a voice announces distantly over the intercom. Franziska exits the elevator immediately, leaving him slumped against the wall alone with his pants still unzipped and his face burning red.   
  
"A von Karma never makes an empty threat," she says.   
  
The elevator doors close slowly as she stands just outside looking utterly victorious, and he knows he'll never forget that smile. 


End file.
